To Claim His Mistress. Sara Craven

      Send a car—as if she was a parcel to be collected? And at ten? Clearly there was to be no leisurely wooing over dinner this time.

      He was actually turning away when she said his name. ‘Did I forget something?’ His brows lifted in enquiry.

      So many things, Cat thought, swallowing. But there’s a barrier, suddenly, and I can’t get round it. I can’t reach you.

      She clutched at a straw. Forced a smile of her own. ‘I wanted to mention last night—to explain…’

      ‘But you don’t have to do that,’ he said, quite gently, but with a faint trace of something like mockery in his voice. ‘Under the rules we see each other when we wish, but the rest of our lives remain a closed book. And the beauty of that is no excuses or explanations. We can both do exactly as we like.’

      So he doesn’t care about Tony, she thought, with a touch of bleakness. But I’m not allowed to ask about his companion either, and that’s a different story.

      ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice faintly constricted. ‘Yes, of course.’

      He lingered, his meditative gaze considering her in silence, and she suddenly realised what he was seeing—her face scrubbed as clean as a child’s, without a trace of cosmetic, and surrounded by the damp tendrils which had escaped from her pinned-up hair. The elderly velour dressing gown, kind as an old friend, but undoubtedly sacrificing beauty to comfort, however you looked at it. Not a speck of allure anywhere.

      Her hand went almost protectively to the base of her throat, drawing the worn edges of the robe together.

      She looked back at him, her chin lifting in challenge. ‘Having second thoughts?’

      ‘Having all kinds of thoughts,’ Liam returned coolly. ‘Which I look forward to sharing with you on Thursday night. I can hardly wait. And wear something glamorous,’ he added softly. ‘Something I’ll enjoy removing.’ His smile touched her like an intimate caress. ‘Goodnight.’

      Ridiculously, she found herself blushing. Felt a warm tide of colour spread up from her toes to her forehead, and knew it would not have escaped his attention, or his amusement.

      Wordlessly, she stepped backwards and closed the door between them. She sagged against the frame, her breathing ragged, her heartbeat tumultuous.

      My God, she thought, swallowing. This was pragmatism carried to the nth degree.

      She made herself walk over to the sofa and sat down in its corner, her feet curled under her.

      What am I getting into here? she wondered incredulously. Some kind of business arrangement controlled by dates and logistics—efficient but passionless?

      No, she thought, remembering his smile, and the sudden, sensuous glint in his eyes that had so rocked her. Certainly not passionless. But maybe not very romantic either.

      If she was honest, she realised, she’d never considered the practical details of her idea until this very moment. But Liam had brought them home to her, loud and clear. She felt suddenly cold, and pulled the folds of the robe around her.

      But she wished he’d accepted her tacit invitation to stay the night, and that he was here at this moment, beside her, his lips weaving warm magic on her skin. His body pressing hers deeper and deeper into the yielding cushions. His flesh against hers. Within hers.

      She was aware of the deep burn of desire igniting inside her. She lifted her clenched fist to her mouth and bit the knuckle with almost clinical precision.

      Fighting one pain with another, she told herself in self-derision.

      I should have tempted him to stay—used my own powers of persuasion, she thought.

      But maybe that was outside the bounds of possibility, Cat told herself, stifling a sigh. Perhaps Liam wasn’t turned on by the plain, unvarnished version of her he’d seen tonight. Instead, he wanted his mistress-to-be smoothed out, made-up, and perfectly presented. Scented and beddable.

      Well, she thought, she’d wanted a secret no-strings liaison, and this was precisely what she was getting, so she could hardly complain.

      This time the sigh escaped her, telling in its wistfulness. And its longing.

      One thing was certain, she thought, rallying herself, she’d completely lost her appetite for supper. So she might as well go to bed, even if it was alone, and try to get some rest.

      Although instinct warned her that sleep might be elusive and her dreams thoroughly disturbing, keeping her tossing and turning until dawn. And instinct, as it turned out, was absolutely right.

      Work proved to be Cat’s salvation in the days that followed. She tried to fill every hour with at least seventy minutes, scheduling site visits, meeting potential sub-contractors, and following up on even the most unpromising enquiries. And she’d never been so up to date on her paperwork either.

      She tried hard to put the coming Thursday night out of her mind, but not with any real success. Liam was never far away, waiting on the edge of her consciousness, making her body sing with tension.

      It was ridiculous to feel so nervous, she castigated. He was the lover she’d dreamed of, and he was going to be hers—on her terms. What more could she ask?

      Well, she might have wished the arrangement hadn’t been quite so businesslike, but again she was hardly entitled to complain.

      She wasn’t working on Thursday itself. She was owed several days’ extra vacation, and she planned to use one of them pampering herself at a health spa with every beauty treatment known to the mind of woman.

      And in accordance with his request—or was it a demand?—she’d bought herself something glamorous: a housecoat in heavy black silk, long-sleeved, floor-length and full-skirted, fastened by a long row of tiny buttons that began at the deep V of the neckline and ended at mid-thigh.

      She was folding it in tissue and placing it in her overnight bag on Wednesday evening when the doorbell rang.

      Cat froze, sending herself a horrified glance in the mirror. Oh, no, she besought any passing fate, he can’t have caught me again, with wet hair and wearing the comfort blanket.

      She opened the door carefully, using the chain, and peeped round the edge. A young man was standing there in leathers, carrying a crash helmet under his arm and holding a padded envelope.

      ‘Miss Adamson? I’ve been asked to deliver this, and wait for an answer if needed.’

      He passed the yellow envelope through the gap to Cat, who tore it open. Three keys on a ring with a metal tag slid into the palm of her hand. The attached label read ‘Flat 2, 53 Wynsbroke Gardens’. And, scrawled underneath the address in Liam’s distinctive writing, ‘In case I’m late.’ She stared down at it. So, she thought, this was to be the meeting place he’d arranged—not the anonymous hotel room she’d expected, but a flat in one of London’s most expensive areas. Serious stuff.

      She swallowed convulsively. My God, she told herself. It’s coming true. It’s really happening. I don’t think I believed it until this moment.

      Yet here was the incontrovertible truth. Liam had meant everything he said. Her hand closed round the keys so tightly that the metal dug into her hand as she stared unseeingly in front of her.

      I’m scared, she realised in bewilderment. I’m actually scared. And how pathetic is that?

      ‘Is there an answer, miss?’ The messenger’s voice reached her from the passage outside.

      I’m being offered another choice, she thought. Another chance to do the wise thing. All I have to do is hand back the keys, say there’s been some mistake, and I’m out of it for good. He won’t try again. And I’ll be safe. Safe…

      The word echoed longingly in her head.

      She took a deep breath. ‘Thank you,’ she said